Blood
by musicalvampirelove
Summary: ... and what it means for Elphaba. Bookverse. Rated for me being paranoid.
1. Chapter 1

AN Don't know what came over me... late night, noticing a cat's scratch on my arm, writing this. Probably strange grammar and strange content and strange spelling mistakes and strange words in strange places, sorry for that. Don't even know why I've come to writing in English so much.

**Disclaimer**: Really, there should be an automatic disclaimer for this webside. Like it comes automatically with having an account here. But there isn't, so if you have to be sure: No, it's not mine. It's Gregory Maguire's and if it was mine it wouldn't be as gorgeous ad nobody would want to write about it, because he's the genius, not me. Sniff.

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Blood

Blood. It played an important role in her life. She'd never thought about it much, but now it crept into her mind, slowly, unbidden, until its presence could no longer be denied.

Blood meant family, people tied together by bloodlines. She'd known that, always, and hadn't thought about it twice because it was just naturally. She had never made a connection between the word _bloodline_ and the blood that was this red fluid that got darker and sticky when it dried, that was the pure essence of Life pulsing through the veins of people, Animals and animals alike. But it was just the same. Her blood was connected with her mother's blood, which had ceased to make its way through Melena's body long ago, and somehow Melena's blood was now flowing within her, although it still seemed more a metaphor than everything else, after all she hadn't soaked up her mother's blood to use it for herself. Still, they were the same blood.

The same blood flooding through her sisters veins, her sister, whom she had not seen since university, of whom she hardly knew anything, no matter the bloodline. She was her sister, but she was from her blood as well, but bloodlines meant family and not knowledge about each other. She hardly knew her sister, she realized, just as she didn't know her brother. Blood. Family. Not closeness.

Her father. Once agan the same blood, Thropp blood. _Bloody Thropps_, she mused, knowing it was absurd. Her father hated her for being his blood and she knew it. He had never made an effort to hide his disgust towards her, and she hadn't expected him to. After all, blood meant family, but family didn't mean love, it didn't mean understanding.

There were other types of blood. The blood dripping from a small wound, a small scratch, drawn by a knive on bare skin. Then another one and another as she tried to will the emotional pain away. It was a kind of blood that was disgusting, and satisfying just as much. It was different. If somebody had seen her, they might have told her to stop it, that it wouldn't help, but nobody saw. She didn't show it. She hadn't had many friends who could have seen, anyway. She didn't have much to do with this sort of blood – she soon realized it didn't help, and stopped cutting lines into her green skin. It was no use, drawing this type of blood.

Roses have thorns, and those thorns can draw blood as well. When Galinda accidentally cut herself with a rose given to her by on of her countless secret admirers, the blood was mingled with tears. Tears dripping from soft blue eyes, running over pink cheeks and dropping on a fair-skinned white hand, getting mixed with a few droplets of red blood. When it comes to minor wounds, blood hurts a little, but it can be comforted. It won't last long, and even the memory fades away quickly.

Blood had always controlled her life, in so many different ways. She had never stopped to ponder it, it was just a fact, no need to think about it, so she had ignored it. But it wouldn't led her anymore. It was everywhere. Blood on her clothes, blood on her hands, her arms, her face, blood in her hair, blood all around the room. Blood on his body. Leaking from wounds, deeper than any rose thorn could cut. His skin appeared to be red. She hadn't known a human body held so much blood within it, and she wished she didn't know it. But the evidence was here, right before her eyes, and she didn't have the power to close them. She knew it was too late, but she did not want to know. She knew there was no pulse, but she frantically searched for one anyway, spreading the blood even more, on him, on her. His blood on her, and she thought of bloodlines and how she now held his blood, and she felt her throat tighten and nearly vomited at the thought. She didn't want to hold his blood, not like this. His blood on her hands. She thought of Galinda and how she had spilled a few tears when her hand was hurt and how the tears mingled with the blood, but she did not cry, she could not cry. She couldn't stand the sight of any more blood, and she knew what her tears would do. So she screamed.

She screamed, a long, glass-shattering sound no human was ever supposed to make. She screamed, because she could not cry, but she couldn't scream out the agony she felt either. She couldn't concentrate on anything else. The pain was red, red as his blood, and she could see it, she could smell it, she could even hear it, still dripping softly on the floor. She could taste it in her mouth, because she had kissed him, but he wouldn't be kissed awake like a fairy tale prince. All she saw was red, and all she felt was the pain in her bleeding heart, bleeding just like Fiyero bled. Her heart was still beating, and his wasn't. But both were bleeding out.

She didn't know where she was, and she didn't care. She just felt someone wipe away the blood from her wrists, his blood, and she felt as if they wiped her sanity right away together with the red, sticky substance that meant so much to her.

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AN Whatever you think about it... I think it's strange, but I'd love to know your opinion on that matter, yeah? You know what I mean...


	2. Chapter 2

**AN:**_ So, someone asked me to do another chapter for this oneshot... And I said I'd try, and I tried, and this is the result. Like it, or don't like it, either way - tell me :D_

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Blood. She wondered how she was able to ponder it again, a long forgotten memory, an echo of what she had thought about so many years ago. Time must have frozen for the seconds didn't go by. Everything was still – except for her brain. But then again, her brain had never been still anyway, and maybe it had to think even more at this moment to make up for time to be lost.

Because she knew that there wouldn't be any time left for her after those seconds, seconds which seemed like hours, years, decades all at once. The seconds the water rushed through the air, right towards her. Would there be blood, this time? She didn't know. She didn't know if a witch could bleed.

Her mother hadn't been a witch. Her mother had bled. She hadn't been supposed to notice, but even as a small child she'd never do as she was told. She had snuck into the room after her father had finally left it. Nobody had noticed. And the little green girl had seen what she never wanted to see. Her mother, who was always so cold and yet so warm, uncaring and yet loving in her way, Melena, lying in a puddle, a puddle of her own blood. Next to her bed there was wailing coming out of a crib, and, early in a trance, the little girl had approached it, only to back away in panic. Her brother... oh, he was white all right, and his limbs were there and were whole, but no child could have looked scarier. The little boy was covered in blood, even more so than Melena who seemed to be staring at her with empty and yet accusing eyes. Covered in her mother's blood. Her fault...

Dr. Dillamond had bled. She had seen him, she'd be the first student to see him after the so-called accident. It had reminded her of Melena, of Shell, although the Goat's blood was coming merely from his throat, gashed, split open. She had only barely managed to contain herself in order to keep from vomiting at the sight, at the memory flashing before her eyes. Her fault...

She had bled herself, once upon a time. The small blade digging in her skin, drawing her own blood as she tried to wash herself from the blood of others, of innocents, of innocents she had killed. No matter how much blood came out of her own veins, the others wouldn't ever get back what she had unintentionally taken from them. So she stopped trying to punish herself by cutting... and started punishing herself by living on. Her fault.

Fiyero had bled. Oh, how he had bled. So much blood, everywhere, numerous wounds on his body, spilling out blood with a light, splashing sound that mocked her in the most cruel way. He had bled for her, because he loved her, and she had killed him, unintentionally, one more to add to her list, because she loved him. Love wasn't for her. She had to be punished. So he was dead. Her fault...

She had bled herself, not yet a witch after a year. She hardly remembered. There was pain, pain everywhere, and red lightning before her eyes, from the pain, from the blood. Maybe she screamed as the blood rushed out of her, taking something with it, something that screamed, too... another boy, covered in his mother's blood, and she knew his life would be just as bloody as he was himself right now, and she refused to accept it, but to no avail. Liir was born already, and he would see more blood in his life, and there was nothing she could do about it. Her fault...

Nessa had been a witch. Nessa hadn't bled. The house had squashed her, had broken her body, taken her life in the most violent way she could imagine – but there had been no blood. Just the shoes. The shoes, red, red as the blood that was never spilled, and now Dorothy had them, and Dorothy was spattered with her sister's blood, Nessa's blood, and it was _her fault_... and she wanted it back.

But now this Dorothy girl stood in front of her, and she was throwing water at her, at the flames licking at her skirts, and Dorothy wasn't to blame, it was all her, all the Witch herself... Dorothy didn't know, hadn't known, and she was wearing Nessa's blood. And the Witch could see the water, could picture her death, and there wouldn't be blood. Just green muck, disgustingly flowing and finally drying on the stone floor, because witches do not bleed.

And the water hit her, hit her hard, and Dorothy screamed, and Elphaba screamed and the Witch screamed, too, and Elphaba bled and the Witch did not.


End file.
